


Sinstán

by Ryne



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:31:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryne/pseuds/Ryne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Merlin stumble upon Stonehenge. Set post-series 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _**Sinstán** (Old English)_ \- immortal/eternal stone.
> 
> I've never been to Stonehenge — or England, actually. All descriptions of the countryside and the henge come from pictures and research, and haven't been looked over by anyone who knows firsthand. Special thanks to Realta and Heather on The Heart of Camelot for giving me ideas and pushing me to finish. You're awesome, guys.

The structure was only barely visible as a black speck on the cold, grey horizon, but it was a welcome break in the monotony all the same. “We make camp there tonight,” he announced, and he could see the relief in everyone’s faces. After leaving the forests of Camelot behind to face an endless sea of green grass and rolling hills, his men were windswept and miserable and exposed; the sky was overcast and held a promise of rain, and any sort of shelter from it would be a comfort.

They broke camp and rode southwest, towards Cornwall and a treaty with King Mark. Arthur looked round at everyone and once again noticed the discomfort in the air. The knights hid it well, but they were all out of their element here on this vast grassy plain where they could go days without seeing signs of life. He could read it in them because he felt it himself — a nervous tension that manifested in a definite shortness in temper, a slight edge to their laughter; and had he noticed more than one of them glancing around anxiously before checking themselves and returning to the rather forced conversation. During the day, they could see everything for miles around — but it was the nights that worried them, because at night they could be ambushed by anyone who was intelligent enough to extinguish their torch before approaching.

Merlin seemed particularly lost, and did not do nearly as good a job at hiding it. Arthur hadn’t seen him ride so poorly since he first came to Camelot, and he looked drawn and far paler than usual. Arthur tried to provoke him, both as a distraction and as a source of amusement, but he rarely took the bait; even if he did his replies were half-hearted at best, and he usually lapsed into silence after a few minutes. And even now, when they were riding with a definite camp in mind rather than towards a vague patch of grass that was identical to their previous camp except further south, he had an uncomfortable, puzzled expression on his face that did not bode well for responsiveness.

Alright then — if Merlin was going to be moody and disagreeable, then so be it. Arthur turned to Gwaine instead, and asked him, in a falsely cheerful tone, to tell a story about one of his misadventures with his sister, leaving Merlin to stew in his own thoughts, whatever they may be.

\- -o- -

The rain held off, though the clouds and the wind grew heavy with it and he was sure it would start soon. It was near sunset when they finally reached the structure, which was not a building, as Arthur had predicted; instead it was a configuration of enormous weatherbeaten rocks, huge slabs of stone that were arranged into a circle, some thrusting up into the air, with others balanced on top of them to form gateways. Some had fallen to the ground, laying cracked and broken and forlorn in the grass, and there was an ethereal quality about it that Arthur couldn’t quite pinpoint. 

He dismounted several feet outside the ring, and the others followed suit; leaving the horses, they leapt across the ditch and ventured through the arch directly in front of them, where they encountered another ring of short stones. “Steady there, Merlin,” he heard Elyan whisper behind him, his voice carrying unnaturally in the still air; and it was then that Arthur realized that the wind hardly penetrated the circle. “Come on,” he said quietly, and beckoned them all into the clearing.

They crept forward slowly, warily; no one had drawn any weapons, but Arthur’s fingers were twitching toward Excalibur’s hilt, and he was sure that he wasn’t the only one. Percival shifted uncomfortably next to him, his chain mail clinking; every sound seemed magnified, and Arthur was sure that he could hear everyone’s breath as they drew closer to the massive stone centerpiece. The knights spread out to look around, glancing around at the looming arches around them; and if they didn’t stray as far from one another as normal, there was no one around to comment. “What _is_ this?” Gwaine whispered, and Arthur could see the crinkle of fear around his eyes; but then his hand moved to the pommel of his blade and some of the tension left his shoulders.

Nobody answered him — nobody could. 

“I wonder — we’ve been riding for _days_ ,” Elyan murmured. “And we’ve hardly seen a rock, let alone stones of this size. But it’s odd... they look—” He cut himself off, staring fearfully at the nearest stone, and Arthur itched with the discomfort of not knowing. “They look like the stones from the Valley of the Fallen Kings,” he finally finished, his voice heavy with trepidation, and Arthur’s heart pounded to see that it was true.

“But we’re _leagues_ away,” said Percival a moment later, when the echo of Elyan’s speculation became too much to bear. “How did it get out here? And — these stones are _ancient_ ,” he added, peering closely at the arch next to him; he reached a hand out but didn’t touch it, and the action was so noticeable in its absence that Arthur began to realize that they were all avoiding contact, even him, and felt foolish.

“ _Don’t touch it_ ,” Arthur heard a voice whisper, sounding so far away that Arthur was sure he’d imagined it; and he was so discomfited by this place, by the strange air and the feeling of displacement, that he rebelliously ignored the voice, imaginary or not, and pressed his palm flat against a pillar. Nothing happened; and Arthur huffed out a nervous laugh with the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Of course nothing happened — what had he been expecting? The stone was rough and warm to the touch, oddly so on a day with no sunlight, and Arthur thought he could feel it humming faintly beneath his fingertips; but he dismissed that as imagination as well. _It’s nothing but stone_ , he told himself. _And there is nothing to fear from that._

The sun was rapidly disappearing beneath the horizon, and a rumble from the sky forced Arthur to push his feelings of unease away and think rationally. “We need to set up camp,” Arthur said finally, dropping his hand back to his side, and the knights glanced at one another and said nothing. “Look, I don’t like it any more than you do, but we need to camp _somewhere_ , and this place seems to offer some protection from the wind,” Arthur said impatiently as none of them moved. “It’s better than sleeping out in the open again, especially with this storm—”

“ _No_.”

Arthur looked round to find Merlin, forgotten until now, standing in front of the stone in the center with his back to them, his body so rigid that Arthur was vaguely surprised that his spine didn’t snap. He didn’t turn round, didn’t acknowledge that everyone was now staring at him, and didn’t seem to sense Arthur’s fury. “Excuse me?” Arthur said dangerously. 

“Please, Arthur,” Merlin said, panicked and far too loud; but for some reason speaking seemed to be an enormous effort for him, so he didn’t seem to notice how his voice blared in the silence. “Please, we can’t stay here. Gaius told me about places like these. It’s called — it’s called a — a henge, and it’s magic. Full of magic. Please, Arthur, we need to go. I can’t — _we_ can’t be here.”

Arthur had never heard of that word in his life and almost accused Merlin of making it up; but then again he’d never heard the words afanc or bastet or griffin, either, and Gaius had always been right about those. He looked to the knights to see what they made of Merlin’s outburst; Percival was regarding the stones with renewed discomfort, and Gwaine was staring at his friend as if he’d never seen him before.

“Maybe we shouldn’t stay here,” Elyan said with a wary glance at Merlin, and Arthur knew he was thinking about the cursed druid shrine. He wanted to reassure him that it would be fine, that there wouldn't be a repeat of that incident, but then a hand clamped onto his arm, and Arthur jumped. 

Merlin’s grip was vice-like, and he was looking round at the stones in terror, still taut as a bowstring. “Arthur,” he said urgently, though much quieter, and Arthur could feel him trembling. “Arthur, if you have ever trusted me in the past -- you need to trust me now. We can’t stay here. We can make camp out by the horses, but please, _not here_.”

Arthur had never seen Merlin so terrified, not even during the Dorocha attack, and for some reason that unnerved him more than the bizarre lack of wind and the otherworldly feeling in the air. “Alright,” he said at last, letting go of his anger, setting aside his growing helplessness, and trusting in Merlin because he’d never let him down; then he felt a strange rush of relief, which lent strength to his voice. “Alright, we won’t — we’ll camp out there. Back to the horses,” he said, raising his voice, but the knights were already moving; Merlin walked like every step was a struggle, his face turned to the ground, and Arthur followed him out with growing concern.

But at the edge of the circle, for reasons he couldn’t explain even to himself, Arthur turned back for one last look. _Arthur,_ the stones whispered to him, sounding ancient and familiar. _Arthur._

And for the first time in his life, Arthur fled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The translation of the Old English is located at the end.

Merlin missed the trees like an amputee missed a limb.

There was a space that they used to fill and he probed at it like it was a lost tooth. He had never noticed their presence in his mind until it was gone, and now he felt as though a part of him were missing. The trees had been talkative, though he hadn’t realized it at the time. They whispered to one another in a constant, indecipherable murmur, and their presence had surrounded him in with the magic of growing things. Out here in the open, the grass was a poor substitute; its presence was a drop of rain compared to the ocean of magic in the forest. And while he was sure he’d get used to it in time, he didn’t like it one bit.

The inexplicable feeling of loss left him with a sense that was close to vertigo; every few minutes he would get so absorbed in exploring the missing space that he’d nearly forget where he was, and several times it took a sharp word from Arthur or a nudge from Gwaine to jolt him out of his stupor. He wasn’t hungry, and the emptiness in his mind and body combined with the monotony of the journey dulled his senses until he could hardly focus enough to stay on his horse. 

As the day wore on and they rode toward the strange structure, Merlin grew more and more uneasy. It wasn’t just the absence of the trees -- he had grown used to the sort of disorientation that that gave him. It was something else; a growing presence in the air, a sort of odd whispering in the grass. Something began to fill the space in his mind bit by bit -- like water trickling into a bucket one drop at a time. It filled gradually, uncomfortably, in a way that did not fit, and Merlin shook his head every so often in a futile attempt to dislodge it.

The sky grew darker and darker above them, and Merlin sank further into his head as it became heavy and muddled. For some reason a sense of dread was steadily growing within him as well, and yet there was an undercurrent of savage joy that he couldn’t explain. He was so mystifyingly happy and yet so nervous that throwing his head back and allowing hysterics to overtake him seemed like the best thing in the world, but he had to hold it together for Arthur’s sake, because Arthur would never believe him that something was wrong.

And so Merlin bottled it all up inside and said nothing, and listened as the knights flayed the air with their sharp-edged laughter.

\- -o- -

It was a circle, a circle of ancient stone that was strange as anything Merlin had ever seen and yet somehow as familiar as his own home. Something about it made him extremely nervous and ill-at-ease, even more so than the open plain. The very air tingled, and even though it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, Merlin shuddered. Sliding off his horse in unison with the rest of them, Merlin leaned against the mare’s side, taking refuge in her placid presence. She gave off a dull energy that he craved at the moment, when he was so on-edge; and yet she snorted nervously and shifted, stamping her feet uncomfortably. So even the animals felt it -- something was off about this place.

Yet if Arthur noticed, he showed no sign of it, and didn’t say a word before walking forward into the circle. The knights followed reluctantly and for a moment Merlin didn’t move, standing beside his mare with his hand in her mane and trying to calm himself down. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good. He didn’t want to be here; he had a terrible feeling about the whole place, and yet... and yet he felt at home here, somehow. His head was swimming -- the empty space was gone, filled to overflowing with the _something_ that was flooding this place, wrapping around him and drawing him in. He could feel it moving about in waves through the air and felt dizzy with it, drunk on it, and he felt a deep, dreadful yearning to be closer; his feet seemed to move of their own accord as they stumbled across the ditch, and he only hesitated for a second before following the knights into the circle--

It was like walking into a wall. Merlin reeled backwards, staggering into a solid figure who gripped his arms and said something that he couldn’t understand. He could hear the syllables as if whoever it was was speaking to him from underwater, but the sounds didn’t arrange themselves into coherent words, and it didn’t matter anyways because he was drowning. Magic was pouring into him, more magic than he had ever felt in his life, more than the dragon and the growing things of the forest, and he suddenly knew that was what he had been feeling all day -- all the excess magic that had escaped the stones had drained into him, and when it whispered to him he felt at home.

“ _Wilcumaþ, Emrys_ ,” it said, and magic seared through his bones and ignited a fire in his skin, and it was the most delicious pain he had ever felt. He was drawn to the center of the circle, where a huge altar rose from the ground, and he stood before it with magic running through his veins and felt more alive than he’d ever been. “ _Wé hæfde básnende þé, þú ond þín cynig. Wilcumaþ._ ” My king. Arthur, he thought desperately. Arthur can’t see, or he’ll--

But the thought was whisked away by the magic that hummed in the air, and when he opened his eyes he could see the currents that shaped the storms, the burning of the sun, the very turning of the world. What were such earthly concerns in the face of such magnitude? “ _Ofergiete, Emrys_ ,” it whispered. “ _Ofergiete, for þám wé sáwon ungehwæde_.”

And then it showed him the things the stones had seen through the ages, and figures rose in his mind: hooded figures staring up at the sky; formed in a ring around the stone, chanting; igniting the corpse of an aged priest as his successor looked on; burning torches and sweet-smelling herbs as they danced under the moonlight and howled; gathered around the altar where a girl, naked in the darkness, watched in fear as they recited a spell and plunged an ornate dagger into her heaving breast, and there were more sacrifices, more lives, more deaths--

And Merlin came back to himself, feeling every shred of the ecstasy and rage and sadness and terror that had passed within these stones, and knew that this place was both blessed and cursed, and that he had almost been lost in it. The magic had almost taken him and he had almost let it, and he needed to get out of here, because he had never been anywhere so frightening, not even the Valley of the Fallen Kings or the Crystal Cave. He had experienced the overwhelming power of the future, but no one had warned him about the crushing weight of the past.

His hand was extended, almost brushing the lichen growing on the face of the center stone, and Merlin forced it to his side. “ _Ne áhrínaþ_ ,” Merlin thought forcefully, shoving it out in all directions toward the minds of the knights. “ _Ne áhrínaþ. Don’t touch it_.” He didn’t know what would happen if the others did, but he knew he himself was fighting to control the urge, fighting with nearly every ounce of his mind, because if he reached out his hand the magic would inundate him again and he would be lost--

A great vibration crashed into him, like the beat of an enormous drum, because someone had ignored his warning; the sound reverberated inside his body, and he wondered that the others weren’t crying out, because it echoed, terrible and awesome, _Ætsamne ond Forþweard, Ætsamne ond Forþweard. Once and Future._ Arthur.

“--need to make camp,” he heard Arthur say, his voice sounding far-off and the words hardly recognizable, and his panic grew. He couldn’t be here, this place was wild and dangerous and something was happening to him that he didn’t understand -- he had to warn them but -- but what language did he speak? -- _englisc_ \-- English, he spoke English, and now he needed to remember what that sounded like, he needed to warn them --

“ _No_ ,” he said, tearing the word from the recesses of his memory. He wrenched his senses away from the stone and hid himself behind memories of Arthur, Arthur and the knights, he needed to protect them, he needed to get them away, and now he could remember -- “Please, Arthur.”

So this was English. It tasted of rain and sun-soaked crops, of bread and fire in the hearth, and he could see his mother’s face, and she was telling him _two sides of the same coin_. Arthur’s hand may have fallen away from the stone but still the stones thrummed his name through Merlin’s veins, _Ætsamne ond Forþweard, Ætsamne ond Forþweard_ , but Merlin ignored it because they had to get away, so he pulled everything inward and forced himself to speak. “Please, we can’t stay here. Gaius told me about places like these.” He hadn’t, but Arthur would listen to _his_ words, and now Merlin needed one that didn’t exist, because how could you contain this place in a word? “It’s called -- it’s called a -- a henge, and it’s magic. Full of magic.” Saying this place was full of magic was like saying the ocean was a bit moist, and Merlin wanted to laugh but if he laughed he would break.

“Please, Arthur, we need to go. I can’t -- _we_ can’t be here.”

The center stone was calling him again, “ _Emrys, Emrys, Emrys_ ,” and he had never wanted anything so desperately in his life but to reach out and lay his hand against the stone, because then he would be free, free from this mortal body with its mortal fears; his hand lifted, stretched out -- “ _Álæte, Emrys, álæte_ ” -- and all he needed was one more inch--

But instead, in one last desperate, visceral attempt to save himself, he whirled around and his hand found Arthur instead, and he started to remember. Merlin. He was Merlin, and that was Arthur, his king, _Ætsamne ond Forþweard_ , who couldn’t see his eyes, his burning gold eyes, because magic was forbidden. “Arthur,” he said urgently, turning his face away but keeping his hold on Arthur, because it was grounding him more than he cared to admit. “Arthur, if you have ever trusted me in the past -- you need to trust me now. We can’t stay here. We can make camp out by the horses, but please, _not here_.”

And Merlin thanked the gods that Arthur listened to him, because it took everything he had to force himself out of the circle again, and it was only because of Arthur that he had made it. 

But he knew, as Arthur’s presence faltered behind him, he knew that he could not stay strong forever. He would come back -- the stones were calling him even now. _Emrys. Emrys._

And the next time he would be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Wilcumaþ, Emrys._ \- Welcome, Emrys  
>  _Wé hæfde básnende þé, þú ond þín cynig. Wilcumaþ._ \- We have been expecting you, you and your king. Welcome.  
>  _Ofergiete, Emrys. Ofergiete, for þám wé sáwon ungehwæde._ \- Forget, Emrys. Forget, for we have seen much.  
>  _Ne áhrínaþ._ \- Don't touch.  
>  _Ætsamne ond Forþweard_ \- Once and Future  
>  _Englisc_ \- English  
>  _Álæte, Emrys, álæte_ \- Let go, Emrys, let go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my dear friend Heather over on the Heart of Camelot, who gave me a much-needed pep talk and who has kicked my ass into gear using an axe-wielding Christian Bale and threats of boardwork. She's been with me for all the long nights of writing and I couldn't have finished it without her. Here's to you, darling.
> 
> Once again, the translation of the Old English is located at the end.

Merlin's memories of setting up camp were riddled with missing time. He found himself doing things with no recollection of how he got to that point; one moment he was pitching a tent; the next Leon was handing him some of the wood they had brought for fires; and in another he was kneeling on the ground with a spell on his lips, about to use magic to light the fire, because he had never felt so much like the sorcerer of legend with _Emrys Emrys Emrys_ still echoing in his head, so why should he hide? But he quickly pushed away those thoughts and reached for the flint instead, and was glad that none of the knights had been looking his way to see his hand outstretched.

The only clear memory he had was of taking care of the horses, because once again their placid natures calmed him and grounded him and left him almost weak-kneed with relief. He stood with his head against the neck of Leon's gelding, breathing in its earthy scent and feeling more like himself than he had in ages. He wished he could just sleep in their midst – never mind the risk of trampling, never mind that Arthur would question and scoff and mock. He was losing his mind, his self, because while he was still terrified and panicked and frantic, leaving the circle had made him feel empty and so very, very lonely and he wanted nothing more than to go back, and for some reason the horses kept that feeling at bay. But it was impossible because the others would never understand, so Merlin finished the job and forced himself back to the fire.

And then he blinked, and he was handing out a dinner that he had no memory of making.

Then the ferocious wind was tearing at his blankets, and he looked around to see everyone asleep except Gwaine, who had taken first watch; he was sitting by the tiny fire looking nervous and uncomfortable and afraid. But while Merlin normally would have gotten out of his bedroll to give him company and reassurance, he knew that he would be of no help now, especially because he could think of nothing to say that would reassure him, and so he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, because if he was asleep then the stones couldn't get to him. It wouldn't work – his heart refused to stop racing and he was trembling with the magic coursing through the air and through his veins, and he tried to use it to force himself into unconsciousness, even going so far as to whisper an incantation when his intention wasn't enough, but to no avail. He remained awake, and so he rolled over to stare at the sky and watch the storm-clouds boil, and remembered what it was like to see the wind. 

He needed to go back. He felt it, he knew it, and his mind and his magic and even his bones itched with the desire to return. But he shouldn't. Terrible things would happen – awful, terrifying, amazing things that would tear him apart in ways he could never imagine, could never be brought back from. He shouldn't go. He needed to go. He needed to stay here, with Arthur, and protect him. But Arthur was king now – he had seen to that. Arthur was king now, _Ætsamne ond Forþweard_ , and so he could go. Shouldn't. Needed to.

“ _No_ ,” he thought, and the wind howled through the camp. The magic roiled inside of him, and he felt ill, like his head was splitting open and his insides were being stirred together with a hot poker. The world tilted around him and he clutched at the grass to anchor him because he was going to fall away into the sky; then his mind was left open because his defenses fell to pieces, and they whispered to him even from this distance. “ _Ætthwierf, Emrys. Ætthwierf. Ætthwierf_.” And he had never felt pain such as this, never felt so dizzy and lonely and afraid, and all he had to do was listen to them and go back and--

A pair of hands grabbed him and he nearly wept with the relief it gave him. “ _Merlin_ ,” Gwaine whispered urgently, and shook him; Merlin could hear the terror in his voice, coiled tight and trembling, and he blinked up at his friend and coughed until he couldn't breathe. “I'm alright,” he croaked, the biggest lie he had ever told, and when Gwaine let go Merlin could feel the weight of his stare.

“You were--” Gwaine said fearfully, then stopped. “What's wrong, Merlin?” he finally asked, and the wind nearly carried his voice away. “You've been – for days, you've been acting strange, but _today_... gods above, Merlin, what _was_ that?” 

He could feel the first waves of chaos rolling over him again, but he squinted into his friend's face and held on to the thread of conversation. “Something's happening to me, Gwaine,” he said lowly, and laughed. The hysteria from earlier today had never seemed closer, and for a minute, just for a minute he allowed it to wash over him, and the fear of it moved him to honesty. “I don't -- I'm going mad, Gwaine, and I don't know how much longer--” 

Then the dizziness was back, worse than ever, and Merlin breathed deep and tried to ignore the feeling of falling upwards. Gwaine's hand was on his arm again but this time there was no relief, because they were determined to get him, so determined, and how could he deny them when he wanted it so badly himself? “I need to go back,” he confessed, cutting off Gwaine's frantic questions, and the last of his will crumbled; he forced himself to sit up, and the dizziness subsided because he was finally moving in the right direction.

“No,” Gwaine said, real panic in his voice. “No, Merlin, you can't -- I saw you there earlier, you _can't_ \--"

Anger exploded within him, because he was _Emrys_ , and who was this mortal, with his tiny, shuttered perspective, to tell him what he couldn't do? “I can,” he said, shoving Gwaine's restraining hand away, and in his fury the magic came pouring out of him, and he didn't know if it was sleep or death that made Gwaine's eyes roll back into his head but he couldn't bring himself to care. He needed to go, and no one would stop him, not now that the last person standing in his way was silenced.

And as Merlin stepped over the body of his friend, he knew that he was lost.

\- -o- -

The walk was long and dark, because Arthur had decided that it would be best to ride just a little bit further away. Merlin had been glad of it before, but all he wanted now was to be there, and irrational anger burned within him once more. “ _Leoht_ ,” he said, and a light burst into life in his palm. It shone like a miniature sun; with it he could see the stones just up ahead, and he broke into a run and didn’t stop even though his breath was tearing a hole in his side. He didn’t hesitate until he reached the edge of the ditch, where he stood teetering on the edge and asked himself one last time if this was wise. “ _No_ ,” he thought, and smiled even though no one could see him but the stones; then he stepped through into the circle, and his magic sang to be so free.

“ _Wilcumaþ, Emrys_ ,” they whispered again, and Merlin laughed, because it was beautiful, because it was terrible and terrifying and _wonderfu_ l, and he could hardly believe that he had dreaded coming back. All his fears were drowned in relief, and he was happy, so blissfully happy that he sank to his knees and felt the earth humming beneath his hands. He could see again, and he drank in the sight of thunder forming and watched the rain threaten to overflow the clouds.

Then once more he was drawn into the center, where the altar took up its call again, “ _Emrys, Emrys, Emrys_ ,” and he couldn't remember why he had been afraid. “ _Álæte, Emrys, álæte_ ,” it said, but there was nothing to let go of, because he had never wanted anything so much, not even his freedom, and so he reached out a trembling hand and laid it flat against the stone.

A fork of lightning lit the circle, and Merlin wasn't sure whether it hit him or came from him – he had thought that he had been drowning in magic before, but now, now he could feel every cell bursting with it – he cried out in unison with the thunder because he was inundated with time, past and future and present all jumbled into one and yet each distinct and tragic.

He saw the beginning, when long-dead sorcerers first charmed the stones out of the earth with their words and carried them across the plains, pouring their magic into them with spells and rituals and death. He saw a time when magic was forgotten entirely, when the earth and air and water brimmed with it, but there was no one who could see it, and the stones became a place where people stared and speculated but never understood, never felt a drop of the power they contained. And Merlin felt a void within him at the thought of such an empty world, a void that was so huge that he felt it could swallow the universe, and he wept at its inevitability, because it was beginning even now and there was no way to halt its progress. 

And overhead the storm finally broke, and the world wept with him. 

“ _Hwæt sy þes?_ ” the stones asked him as the wind howled in despair, and Merlin thought, “ _Sárignes.” Sadness._  

“ _Sárignes_ ,” they repeated, and he tasted the word as if for the very first time. “ _Sárignes. Gyse, sé sy hit. Wé hæfde genæfd reord for hit ær_.” And he knew a boundless joy that wasn't his at being able to feel, to express concepts that he hadn't known existed until this moment but which were overwhelmingly, dizzyingly true. He had never before appreciated what it was to feel, not until he knew what it was to be without it, and he couldn't lose that again. “ _Gebíde, Emrys_ ,” the stones begged, and they pressed their desperation through him. “ _Gebíde ond onfind for ús_.”

There was not enough of him left for him to refuse even if he wanted to because the line between him and them had become so blurred, so he gave a wordless _yes, of course I'll stay_ that they understood all the same, and ceased to be himself  

\- -o- -

And then suddenly he was torn away, raw and lonely, because Arthur was there, holding him up and hurling strange words in his face. Merlin knew he should answer but he didn't know how, didn't know anything, so he stared blankly at him before the agony of being alone in his mind became too much to bear.

Then the stones whispered one last time, “ _þence ús, Emrys. Remember us_ ,” and he gave himself over to the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ætsamne ond Forþweard - Once and Future  
>  _Ætthwierf_ \- Come back.  
>  _Leoht_ \- Light  
>  _Wilcumaþ_ \- Welcome.  
>  _Álæte_ \- Let go.  
>  _Hwæt sy þes?_ \- What is this?  
>  _Sárignes_ \- Sadness.  
>  _Sárignes. Gyse, sé sy hit. Wé hæfde genæfd reord for hit ær._ \- Sadness. Yes, that is it. We have not had the word for it before.  
>  _Gebíde, Emrys. Gebíde ond onfind for ús._ \- Stay, Emrys. Stay and feel/experience for us.  
>  _þence ús_ \- Remember us.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so, so sorry for the enormous wait. I promise that the next one will be exponentially shorter. Thank you all for being so patient and so kind and for offering so much encouragement.

Arthur led them far enough away that the last outline of the stones was swallowed by the darkness, yet still its shadow loomed over their camp. His men were silent and hunched as they set up a perimeter, curling around their anxieties and closing off in a way that he had never seen before; yet they stayed close, as if straying out of arm’s reach was enough to doom them to a terrible fate. It was a complex dance of personal space, of stepping on one another even while acting as if they were trying to avoid even looking at anything other than the ground.

And in the midst of it all was Merlin.

While the knights were hyper-aware of the others’ proximities, Merlin drifted like a war refugee, hollow-eyed and haunted. He was everywhere — helping Leon set up, rolling out bedding, pitching tents — and yet he was nowhere, silent and unresponsive and _absent_ in a way that made Arthur want to shake him back to his normal state of inane, comforting chatter. Yet all he did was watch, because something was wrong with Merlin and he didn’t know what it was, didn’t know how to bring him back, didn’t know how to put words to the terror that was rooting itself deep in his bones ever since Merlin’s display back in the circle.

But occasionally Merlin would blink and start and look around as though surfacing from a deep lake, panicked and lost and oddly forlorn, staring as if he had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there. These moments of lucidity lasted mere seconds before he drifted back to blankness, still silent and empty as the plain on which they stood, and Arthur and the knights watched him out of the corners of their eyes and shivered with a dread that they did not understand.

Soon they all huddled around the fire that Merlin had lit with a curious hesitation, blocking it from the increasingly ferocious wind and absorbing every scrap of warmth while their dinner simmered and spit. “What’s wrong with him?” Percival whispered when he moved away to care for the horses, giving Merlin’s abandoned cook-pot a stir in his absence.

“Dunno,” Gwaine said nervously, casting a glance over his shoulder at his friend. “I’ve never seen him like this before.”

“It’s just Merlin being Merlin,” Arthur said bracingly, hoping that his men couldn’t hear the lack of conviction in his voice. “You know how he gets — he jumped at every shadow when the Dorocha were around, and he panics at the slightest mention of the Valley of the Fallen Kings. He’s convinced it’s cursed, but there’s never even been the slightest hint that—”

“He was right about that druid camp,” Elyan interrupted quietly, eyes downcast. “And you have to admit that there was _something_... those rocks were strange, Arthur. I’ve never been so — so _unsettled_. He was right to make us leave.”

Arthur hummed noncommittally as Merlin came staggering back into their circle, and everyone fell silent. Soon dinner was cooked and distributed, and though it was hot and filling, it brought little comfort to the group, and when the last bit of it had been eaten and the dishes stowed away, they drew lots for watches, eager to abandon this tension for the oblivion of unconsciousness.

“Get some sleep,” Arthur advised his men as Gwaine cursed and searched his pack for the flask he’d stored to keep him company, because he knew that no matter how exhausted they were, their overwrought nerves would keep them awake for hours. “We ride hard tomorrow.”

And before he crawled into his tent and forced himself to sleep with all the tricks he’d learned from years of campaigning, he saw Merlin staring blankly at the sky.

 - -o- -

 Arthur awoke to the rumble of thunder and a furious gust of wind that blew his tent down on top of him. Disoriented and flailing, he disentangled himself and stumbled out into the open air, where he shivered in the rain-heavy wind. The air seemed thick with a terrible energy, and Arthur shivered again as a deep, strange perturbation settled itself into the pit of his stomach.

"Gwaine,” he croaked, trying to shove the feeling aside as he moved toward their dying fire. “Why’d you let the fire go out? Dammit, Gwaine, if you're drunk—”

But there was no answer, no figure huddled next to the embers, and Arthur’s heart thudded. After today’s experiences he misliked this silence, misliked anything out of the ordinary, because he was too on-edge to cope. “Gwaine!” he called, but his voice was swept away in the wind. He cast about in the darkness for any vague hint of where the man could’ve gone, blinking away the echo of flames that the fire had left behind his eyes, but he saw nothing but grass and tents and Merlin’s bedroll, where there was a dark shape slumped next to the rumpled blankets—

When he reached him, he found that Gwaine was cold — of course he was cold, with no fire in this chill — and while there was no sign of any injury, Arthur couldn't hear his heartbeat through his mail or feel his breath on his hand through the wind. "Merlin," Arthur barked, slapping at his servant's bedroll. "Merlin, get up, something's wrong with Gwaine—"

But the bedroll was empty, and the wind made the blankets skitter and dance, but did not give any clue as to where Merlin had gone. “Merlin,” Arthur said, louder this time, looking around the perimeter as if he’d find him patrolling in Gwaine’s stead, trying to quell his growing panic. But even with all of his recent strangeness, Merlin still would have woken him if something was wrong, unless — unless —

He hit at the nearest tent until Percival came stumbling out, alert as he could be while blinking sleep from his eyes. “Arthur?” he asked, the confusion clear in his voice despite its low volume. “What’s—?”

“Rouse the others,” Arthur told him, even as Percival’s eyes widened as he noticed Gwaine. “Something’s wrong with him, and Merlin’s missing. We’re under attack.”

But _why?_ Arthur thought as Percival turned towards Leon’s tent. Why attack the watchman and steal a servant, and leave the rest alive and asleep in their beds? It would be easy as breathing to slit their throats in their tents, and even if one of them had awoken in time to scream it would not have been heard over the skirling wind. 

These were questions that could be asked later, once they had someone to answer them. For now he set them aside as best he could, alongside his disquiet, and focused on finding Gwaine’s pulse. His fingers were cold and shaking and he had found the proper spot on the neck but all he could feel was his own pulse beating out a steady rhythm of _nothing, nothing, nothing_ , but there wasn’t a mark on Gwaine, so _what had happened—?_

Suddenly Gwaine gasped hugely and his eyes flew wide open, and somehow he caught Arthur’s wrist in an iron grip even as he recoiled in shock. “ _Merlin_ ,” he said frantically, looking around, but then gave a wordless cry and groaned, “Oh gods, he’s gone — he’s gone — _Merlin_ —” His eyes found Arthur again and he pulled him close in his panic, breathing erratically. “Something’s wrong, _he’s gone_ —”

“We know, we know, we’re going after him,” Arthur said soothingly, adjusting his hands to comfort Gwaine as the rest of the knights gathered around them. “Did you see who attacked you? How many—”

“No one attacked me,” Gwaine bit out. 

“What—” 

His grip tightened. “You don’t understand — _something’s wrong with Merlin_ —”

“We already knew that,” Arthur joked weakly, but it fell flat as Gwaine continued.

“—he was having some sort of fit — shaking, and clawing at the ground, and making this horrible noise like he was _dying_ , and when I got to him he was hysterical, completely incoherent, and then he had another fit but when he came out of it he told me that _he had to go back_ —”

“ _Go back_ ,” Leon repeated, just as Elyan said, “ _Not to_ —”

But Arthur simply released his hold on Gwaine and stared down at him.

“I tried to stop him,” Gwaine said desperately in answer to the look on Arthur’s face. “I tried, but he — he must’ve knocked me out or something — he wasn’t himself, Arthur, I’ve never seen him like that, not even earlier today, it was like something had a hold on him—”

“Magic,” Percival said hoarsely. “He said those stones were full of magic, d’you think...?”

“I think so,” Elyan answered. “Remember what I said earlier? Those stones are from the Valley of the Fallen Kings, I’m sure of it, and it’s always been said that that place is cursed...”

But as their worry turned into a discussion of this theory their voices were drowned out by others, soft and ethereal and terrifying, and existing only in his head: _Arthur... Arthur..._

And again, just as he had the first time, Arthur wanted to flee from those voices, to run far to a place where they’d never reach him, where he was safe and numb to their power. For it was a power, of a sort; and as the first bolt of lightning flashed overhead, Arthur could feel it coiling round his heart and will, battering them to pieces, inviting him _home, home, home..._

Was this what Merlin had heard?

The thought punched through the voices and centered him once again; and then, as he'd been taught, he allowed himself to feel his terror, his concern, his anger, but then he built a wall around it, a wall that looked like the citadel he’d grown up in, and he locked those feelings in his heart. _Camelot. Camelot is my home._ “I’m going after him,” Arthur said abruptly, standing and facing his men. For some reason he knew that they could not come. “ _Alone_.”

They resisted, they all did — Elyan, who was plainly stuck in the druid camp; Gwaine, who was clearly mortally afraid; Percival and Leon, who had no inkling of the true power of what lay ahead but had no desire for him to meet it unaccompanied — but Arthur cut off their protests. “This is how it must be. I will go alone, and I will bring Merlin back. You will pack up and meet me outside the stones. _Outside the stones._ Do not come in, or all will be lost.” He didn’t know where these words were coming from, but they rang with truth and he spoke them with all the authority he could muster, and their protests died in their throats. 

Leon helped him saddle his horse without a word, his eyes full of fear. Arthur grasped his shoulder firmly but couldn’t find the words to reassure him, so he merely shook him slightly and mounted up. “Arthur,” Gwaine said plaintively, and struggled so much with his final protest that it choked him. 

“Outside the stones,” he repeated once more, then wheeled around and rode towards the circle, just as the heavens opened up and poured down the long-promised rain.

 _You want me to come,_ he told the voices, feeling half a fool. _Alright then. I will come, and I will break you._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even have an excuse for how long this took me. Thank you so much for your patience and kind reviews; you guys were a huge source of motivation. Special thanks to MagicGirl41 for looking this over for me! All mistakes are my own.

His sense of direction did not matter in this storm; blinded by rain and buffeted by wind, Arthur would have been lost were it not for the lightning, which lit up the plain like daylight and threw the stones ahead into sharp relief. His horse did not make the journey any easier; usually a quiet, steady animal, now she was skittish and uneasy, dancing sideways and trying to turn away, but he kept forcing her forward until she almost threw him in her recalcitrance. Finally he gave up, sliding from the saddle and allowing her to tear the reins from his hands as she bolted, hopefully back to the camp, though that would do nothing for the peace of mind of his men, and he hoped that they would not be so foolish as to come after him in their worry.

He walked the rest of the way, slipping on the wet grass and tripping over furrows and growing more and more anxious by the second. He had never gone into a situation more unprepared, not even an ambush, because at least in an ambush he was calling upon skills drilled into him from childhood —  _thrust, parry, feint, defend defend defend_  — but here, when it came to sorcery, when it came to _this_... here he was walking in with nothing, with no knowledge, no skills, no backup, nothing but bravado and will. And as a flash of lightning saved him from tumbling into the trench surrounding the looming, shadowed stones, he felt a yawning pit of terror that swallowed up the air in his lungs and left him trembling and weak-kneed, squeezing his eyes shut as the wind screamed in his ears and voices echoed in his head.

_Arthur... Arthur..._

_No,_ he answered, suddenly furious, and this fury shored up his weakening resolve and kept his terror at bay. _No. I do not know who you are — what you are — but you will not have me. You will not._ And with this thought in mind, the voices fell silent at last, and Arthur felt one fleeting moment of victory before he stepped forward and was swept away.

The last time he had entered the circle, he had felt nothing – nothing except overwhelming tension and a fear of the unknown that he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge, nothing but an extension of the discomfort that had been growing all day. Now, though, the air seemed to crackle with energy, enough to make his hair stand on end, enough to send a shivering tickle down his spine. The wind, the rain, the very feel of the storm had changed  no longer was it violent, ferocious, imbued with all the fury and terror of Nature; now it twisted around him in playful gusts, pouring down its wild, terrible delight from the heavens, and he was filled with a fierce, ecstatic joy that drowned his anger like a tidal wave.

For a moment, he forgot what had brought him here. The ethereal voices that had whispered his name now ceased their call and instead turned into a wordless, welcoming hum, and he dropped to his knees as they swept over him, through him, making him dizzy and breathless with their clamor, a clamor that was increasingly painful in its earnestness, yet somehow he didn’t want it to end until—

“Arthur.”

At first he thought that the voices had started in his head again, but the sound was real this time, pitched in a voice that he would recognize anywhere, and yet dreadfully unfamiliar. It seemed such an effort to open his eyes, though he hadn’t realized that he’d closed them, and when he did he found that his servant was looking at him from the center of the circle as if nothing was wrong. “Merlin!” he cried, staggering to his feet; dizziness swept through him once again but he fought through it, focusing on Merlin’s face in the swirl of vertigo. “What are you standing around here for, we need to leave – you were right, something’s wrong with this place — are you—?”

But the world ‘alright’ died on his lips as Merlin suddenly bowed at the waist, as he usually only did in mockery; but this was much different, and did nothing to set Arthur at ease — this had the air of gravity and respect about it that was usually so desperately lacking, it was the sort of bow one only made to one’s equals, and as he did so he spoke in voices that Arthur had only heard in his head before: “ _Wilcumaþ, Arthur Pendragon, sé Ætsamne ond Forþweard Cyning_.”

And though he only recognized his name out of the jumble of words that poured forth, still they resonated deep within him, feeling unfamiliar yet _right_ , and he found himself bowing respectfully back, bewildered and discomfited and yet knowing it was the correct thing to do. Yet as he straightened up the feeling of deep purpose faded as rapidly as it had arrived, leaving him with a pounding heart and a sick sense of dread — especially as though the fit of decor had passed, the echo of Merlin’s strange voice still lingered in his heart. _Possession_ , he thought. He had no frame of reference for this, no idea of how to break this enchantment — there had been Sigan, but Sigan was human, at least as much as a sorcerer could be; he still didn’t know what force was at work here, only that it _wasn’t_ human, not remotely. And though he tried now to remember how Sigan had been defeated, he came up blank, leaving him only what he had started with: nothing.

Still, Arthur steeled himself and stepped forward, intending to demand that this terrifying force release its hold over his friend, but as he drew closer he could see something that stopped him short, stopped his heart for a moment, because Merlin’s eyes were burning a bright, pure gold – but surely that was another side-effect of the possession, of _course_ it was, so Arthur tamped down the chasm of doubts that exploded within his chest and pressed on until they were standing but an arm's length apart. “I have come for Merlin,” he said firmly, keeping the quaver from his voice with sheer strength of will.

The name didn’t seem to stir any sign of recognition in those strange eyes, yet still he smiled — but not his smile. “Merlin. An earthly name.”

“ _His_ name,” Arthur said forcefully, and did not understand why they laughed. “Let him go.”

“We cannot. We are one.”

“Let him _go_.”

“We are one,” they — he — repeated. “We can no more separate us than you can separate from Arthur. We have always known this, and always will – he had forgotten, but he remembers now, and offered his voice.”

“He’s never been here, he can’t have forgotten,” Arthur snapped out, but all Merlin did was laugh.

“Time happens to us all at once, King Arthur. You mortals are so limited — even you, the Once and Future King, agéd as you are and ever will be. We have forgotten the limitations of human perception — or perhaps we have never known it. Perhaps it is now that we discover how humans see only what they wish to see: a small, linear thread in the tapestry of existence, with no understanding of the larger design. All you see is the present, with maybe some dim grasp of the past and desperate hopes for the future. But we — we see all there is, time immemorial. Emrys had forgotten time, and so we reminded him — we showed him our past, all that has been done here within us — and we showed him our future, what we know will become of us in the far reaches of time. And he has given us  _words_.”

“ _Your_ past. _Your_ future,” he clarified, although with their claim over Merlin he was not sure whether he was asking or telling, and he was getting more and more lost. “Not his. Not whoever this — this _Emrys_ fellow is."

Merlin smiled that sad, distant smile. “We are one,” they repeated. “Not only because he has become one with us, but because he always has been without knowing. He is magic, you see.”

“No,” Arthur said stubbornly. “No. It’s your hold over him that’s making him — he’s not—”

“Oh, Arthur,” they sighed, the name sounding strange on Merlin’s lips, echoing with hundreds of voices that were not his own. “Ah, _ūre Cynig_. Do you not know?”

“Know _what?_ ” Arthur snapped out, aiming for anger but only managing fear, because deep in his heart he knew what was coming, and he knew he couldn’t handle it.

Not this. Not Merlin, too.

“Emrys — your... Merlin,” they said slowly, as if tasting the word and finding it strange, “is magic made incarnate, the most powerful sorcerer who has ever walked this earth—” 

And even though he was braced for it, even though he’d known since the first glimmer of gold — the brightest Arthur had ever seen in a magic-user, a flare that called to mind so many others, half-caught in the corner of his eye on the battlefield — still, the confirmation hit him like a battering ram, square in the solar plexus, leaving him breathless and reeling, feeling as though the very earth had been carved out from beneath him. Throughout all the betrayals — Morgana, Guinevere and Lancelot, Agravaine — Arthur had stayed strong because of Merlin, had kept from giving up entirely because he always remembered at the moment of greatest despair that Merlin would never betray him, would never forsake him, would never stray from his side. He had known this down to his bones and now he felt as if his very marrow had been torn away, to know that magic had corrupted the incorruptible, had wormed its way into Merlin for who knew how long and planted its evil in his soul and grew until all that was good was whittled away. 

How long had he been living with the hollowed-out shell of his friend? 

For a moment Arthur considered simply walking away, abandoning Merlin — Emrys — whoever this was to the insidious influence of this place. He would tell the others that Merlin was nowhere to be found, that Merlin was dead — and he was, he had to be, because he _knew_ Merlin, and Merlin would never lie to him; Merlin would never deceive him to this depth, to this magnitude; _Merlin would never—_  

But he had, and he would have continued to do so, had they not stumbled upon this place; and while his hollow heart cried out for him to leave, instinct told him that this must have happened for a reason, that it was not merely as simple as discovering yet another traitor near and dear to his heart. And so he forced himself to internalize, compartmentalize, because he was a warrior and this was just another battlefield, just another enemy trying to undo him, just as magic always had.

“You truly did not know,” said the stranger with Merlin’s face, who had been watching him with an expression that was just short of compassion, as though whatever force was speaking through him couldn’t quite figure out how compassion was displayed — or couldn’t truly experience it. “You are here much earlier in your journey than we had thought.”

“I thought you were the one who can see all of time,” Arthur said, but he was too drained to muster any bite.

“Yes,” they said slowly. “But you fail to understand – we look at you and see you yesterday and tomorrow and now, all together, all that you were and are and all that you ever will be. Time may be happening all at once, yet it changes with every breath, every heartbeat. This revelation may not have been meant for you to hear at this time — but the end is the same. Your destiny is unchanged.  _ðu bist sé Ætsamne ond Forþweard Cyning_ , who will bring peace to all of Albion, now and always. Your fate and ours — that of magic, that of Emrys — have been intertwined since the beginning of time, and will remain so until its end.”

“I — what—?” Arthur said, nonplussed. “What do you—”

“All will be explained to you in time,” they said with a gentle smile. “But you are too young, yet, and we cannot keep you. You must go out and live, and let time pass by you as it should. Farewell, Arthur. We will meet again.”

“ _Wait_ ,” Arthur cried, surging forward and grabbing Merlin’s arm, because this was too much information yet not enough, and he didn’t trust whoever they were, whatever they were, but they gave him truths when no one else would and he couldn’t let that go. “No, you can’t leave — where are you going — what do you  _mean?_ ”

“Ask Merlin,” they replied, and that no stranger anymore, that was Merlin’s wicked grin— 

—then Merlin’s blue eyes, his terrified face, as the possessing force gave up its hold on him and released him back unto himself, and the agony in his expression wrenched through the rush of complex emotion that flooded through Arthur, hooking into instinct that made him catch Merlin as he fell. Despite his betrayal, despite the despair coursing through his veins with every heartbeat, he was shocked into concern when Merlin’s face stretched in a wordless scream, and he found himself saying, “ _Merlin!_ Stay with me, Merlin, _stay—_ ” 

But it was too late. Merlin’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he folded like a puppet with its strings cut.

Then the storm overhead resumed its howl through the circle, flooding the air with all its former fury, and Arthur stood bereft.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing in my trend of posting one new chapter a year... 
> 
> A huge thank you to MagicGirl41 for looking this over for me. You're the best, darling. All mistakes are my own.

**Chapter 6**

When Merlin finally opened his eyes, he didn’t know when he was.

A blinding cacophony of color swirled past, blurring by in a continuous stream that still gave rise to the tiniest individual moments of clarity. He was lying on something — a bed, it must be a bed, since it was soft and there was a stone ceiling overhead — but it wasn’t stable. It rotted to atoms beneath him, disintegrating to dust as he fell, fell, fell to the earth, yet remained ever motionless, cushioned firmly by pillows and cocooned in blankets. The walls, the ceiling, the tables with all their papers and books and vials, everything that he saw in the brief moment before he slammed his eyes shut — everything wavered and changed, not with dizziness but with _age_. 

His other senses were equally unforgiving — even hiding beneath his dissolving warm blanket like a child, he could smell herbs and parchment, the scents of an infirmary, the scents of home — and yet simultaneously, the dust and disuse of a room long abandoned. The room crackled with torches and the guttering of candles but these sounds were overlaid and subsumed by a strange buzz like that of a trapped insect and, even more peculiarly, utter silence, broken only by his own fast, shallow breaths as he continued to _fall, fall, fall_ —

“Ah, you’re awake,” grunted a voice — voices — young and old together yet distinct, but the same voice throughout. He slitted his eyes open to see, standing before him, a man — a child — a hideous corpse, skeletal and newborn — before he wrenched his eyes closed once more and curved away on his steady, shifting bed. The voices spoken again, separate and yet one, and he clapped his hands over his ears and flinched away from a touch, listening instead to the _thrum_ of his own heartbeat, a steady beacon in the tumult.

The touch brought a cascade of images with it, jumbled and out of order but all centered around the stranger beside him — a young man, crying with relief as he presented the daughter he had just delivered to his exhausted wife; a dark-haired boy, waiting by the door for his father to come home from the sea; a lonely corpse, lined and grey, buried by strangers since there was no one else; a teen, skin pale from too much time spent indoors, hunched over a physician’s handbook as he struggled to commit it to memory; a middle-aged man, carved hollow by grief, standing by two graves that had been scraped from a cliffside, aching with the knowledge that he should have been able to cure them.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin rasped, his back still turned. “Your daughter— your wife—“

“What?” the stranger said, drawing away, his voice still echoing strangely.

“They didn’t deserve it — it wasn’t your fault—“

“I don’t have a daughter, lad.” 

_Not yet_ , whispered a voice in Merlin’s head, an achingly familiar voice of legion that sent a thrill of fear and longing up his spine. _Not yet, Emrys_. “You will,” he said with a certainty that had the man fleeing to the door, and though it slammed behind him the sound was drowned in the silence that surrounded it.

“How did I know that?” he asked the stones, still huddled securely in his collapsing bed, and even over all the distance between them they answered. _You are forever, Emrys_ , they said, intimate and haunting, _and you are remembering what that means._

And before he had any time at all to process that, he could both hear and not hear the door opening behind him, footsteps echoing on the flagstones, a quiet hesitation before —

“Merlin.”

And though the voice was once again layered with different ages, he would still recognize it anywhere. “ _Gwaine_ ,” he croaked out, flooded with unutterable relief as he remembered his actions on the plain, how he’d — hadn’t he—?

“It’s good to see you’re back to your old self enough to terrorize physicians in kingdoms everywhere,” his friend said, the underlying concern in his voice badly hidden even amongst the echoes, and Merlin clung to the only familiar thing in a sea of overwhelming sensation, though he stayed curled away, face hidden. 

“Gwaine, I — I thought—“ _I thought I’d killed you_ , Merlin meant to say, but Gwaine interrupted before he could bring himself to finish the thought.

“You weren’t yourself,” Gwaine reassured him hastily. “I don’t — it wasn’t you. It was that — that place. Not you.”

_Wasn’t it, though?_ Merlin thought, remembering his utter certainty, his unusual self-assurance in his role as Emrys, his casual disregard for the importance of anyone standing in his way. Once he had finally bowed to the ineffable siren song of the stones, he had never felt more like himself, the true self he had buried beneath decades of lies and secrets, so what did that say about him, that he could—?

“Hey,” Gwaine cut in again. “Merlin. Look at me. I’m fine.” He paused a moment, waiting for Merlin to face him, but when he didn’t Gwaine just sighed and repeated, “I’m _fine_. You’re the one who was… well — we don’t really know _what_ happened to you. Arthur’s hardly said a word about it, and he’s been holed up in negotiations since we got here, so we’ve barely seen him in the last few days…” 

“ _Days?_ ”

Gwaine huffed a humorless laugh. “It’s been six days since Arthur hauled you out of that circle, mate,” he said. “You’ve had us all worried sick, especially since the physician almost wouldn’t treat you when he heard where you’d been. What did you _say_ to him when you woke up?”

“Nothing,” Merlin lied, still reeling from the knowledge of how much time he had lost; and though he had no understanding of why, a distant echo of cosmic laughter echoed in his mind at the thought. Perhaps being out for so long was the reason behind his odd disorientation; indeed, the longer Gwaine spoke — the more Merlin focused on it — the clearer his voice became, until he sounded almost normal. Even the vertigo of falling and yet constantly staying still was fading, as though Gwaine’s voice was anchoring him.

“Well, the others are dying to see you,” Gwaine continued, oblivious to Merlin’s inner turmoil, no matter how much it might be lessening. “Arthur’s still tied up, hasn’t even had a chance to stop in, but they said they’d be by soon. They’ll be so relieved to hear you’re okay, mate, we thought you’d _died_.”

And then, before Merlin could stop him, Gwaine clapped a hand on his shoulder, and his entire life exploded behind Merlin’s tightly closed eyes — Gwaine, looking just as he had when he’d first met Merlin all those years ago, laughing as he dived indiscriminately into a bar fight; his younger self, just a boy, chasing a girl who could only be his infamous sister; then, a hollow shell, broken, wounded, tortured, _dead_ , but still so _young_ —

Merlin’s eyes flew open in horror, but the image and its meaning followed him into full awareness. Gwaine was leaning over him now, the spectral visage of the man he called his closest friend leering at him from the future, what had to be the near future, and that meant — that meant—

_You are forever_ , the stones had said, but others _weren’t_.

Without thought, he leapt to his feet and he fled, leaving Gwaine calling his name after him. He ran blindly through hallways of ancient, new-built stone, pitch-black with torches and strange lights like caged lightning, through empty doorways framed by strong timber doors, searching, searching for something that would stand still.

Stumbling, he emerged into sunlight, into salt-scented air, and as his eyes fell on the shifting, tumultuous, ever-same sea, he felt unfathomable peace settle over him. The path beneath his feet still seemed to change with every blink as he charged headlong towards the water, but it was mercifully short; soon he was on the rocky shore, then sand, and then without thinking he plunged himself into the ocean until the stitch in his side brought him to a halt.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, eyes closed, breathing in the salty air and feeling the waves lap against him. The magic here was nothing like that of the forest, or that of the plain on which he had lost himself, but though it swelled and roiled within its own unfathomable depths, he felt utterly at home, his mind centered in a way that he hadn’t felt in days. Too soon, though, he could hear someone wading out towards him, someone who glowed like a torch in the darkness, making the world cry out, _Ætsamne ond Forþweard, Ætsamne ond Forþweard._

Arthur had found him at last.


End file.
